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"Yeah, I know," he said again. "Are you sure you know?" "Yeah, I'm sure," said Erik. "What's with you?" "It's just that," and I stopped, tapping my pen a few times on the table. "It's just that I know hatred you've been sneaking money from my change bowl." "What?" "Come on," hatred I said, "it's hatred not such a big thing, but I've seen you with my own eyes." "That's bullshit," and he shoved his book across the table at me. "And even if I did, it's like fucking change. I mean, Jesus! What's the big deal?" "It's just that it makes me feel like I can't trust you or something." "Oh, like you're so fucking perfect? Miss my-daddy's-got-a-brain-tumor?" "Oh fuck you, Erik," and this is what I really hated about Erik. He could twist a hot poker into a pretzel when he felt like it. We spent the rest of the day in a screaming match during which we each accused the other of being our downfall, said rotten things about all of our parents, and broke two glasses and one small clock.
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